


Good Thing Vichyssoise Is Served Cold

by closette



Series: one shots inspired by fanfics [1]
Category: DCU
Genre: Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, One Shot, POV Bruce Wayne, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closette/pseuds/closette
Summary: Bruce tries to hold it together as Clark confesses his feelings over cold vichyssoise.(Bruce's POV of the hotel restaurant scene in FabulaRasa's excellent fic,Just a Formality.)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: one shots inspired by fanfics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784611
Comments: 18
Kudos: 162





	Good Thing Vichyssoise Is Served Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Just a Formality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034784) by [FabulaRasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa). 



> This won't make much sense if you haven't read the fic. Also it's a spoiler for that story, so don't read this if you haven't read that one first!
> 
> Starts at the Everton when Clark confesses about the real reason why he wants a divorce, and ends a little bit after the hotel suite door closes.

Bruce is nothing but absolutely still. 

He needs a moment to parse through the words he just heard, needs to rearrange the order in his head to see if it can be interpreted in a different way, because it's unbelievable that Clark means what he thinks he means.

_I can't. . . can you see, is there any part of you that can understand that I can't get it out of my head that I am married to you?_

Bruce runs through the words in his head, trying to dampen the hope growing in his chest. Surely, he's misinterpreting this conversation the way he misunderstood Clark's reasons for wanting to divorce. Surely, what Clark means is that it's an uncomfortable thought; marriage to Bruce, done in the most unromantic and unconventional way possible, even if it's just pretend.

But the desperation on Clark's face is mercilessly fanning the hope that Bruce is wrong.

"I can't get past it," Clark resumes, more quietly. "I can't tell myself it doesn't mean anything. Didn't mean anything. And you'll think that's funny, maybe, you'll think that's the midwestern farm boy in me, and maybe so, maybe it is. But saying those words—it meant something to me, something real. It changed things for me. Made me see things I hadn't before. Things. . . in me, in the way I felt. About. . . us. About you."

He actually feels his heart stutter for a moment, then beat twice as fast as before, pumping hard as the adrenaline in his blood spikes. His fingers curl over his crossed arms in a death grip, every single muscle in his body tensing with every word that comes out from that delectable mouth, as the realization builds that Clark feels the same way as him. 

That this sham marriage, borne out of an honest and intense desire to have absolute power to protect Clark wherever they are and whatever circumstances they're in; this marriage between friends that was supposed to be platonic and convenient and just another fact had instead become _knowledge._ He'd stored whatever feeling this knowing gave him in a closed, hidden corner of his mind, in one of the many compartments he already manages.

Hidden knowledge that was explored only when he’s alone and the house is quiet; he'd test the thought, whisper it to himself, thinking there’s no harm when no one knows, will ever know, and no one’s listening. He'd close his eyes and let the hidden thought slip through in a whisper.

_Husband. Mine._

Whenever he sees Clark the subconscious knowledge rears it's unwelcome head from the place it's hidden, and he's reminded that at least on paper, at least temporarily, he belonged to Clark. 

And that knowledge was a low thrum that he tries hard to ignore, because it’s _pathetic_. All of this can disappear on a whim, at any slight discomfort or inconvenience or annoyance caused for Clark. 

But he can’t ignore it. He’s only human, and on an official looking paper, buried in a government employee's drawer somewhere in the black hole of bureaucracy, deliberately setup to be ignored unless it's needed, he’s Clark Kent’s husband. Weightless as air, but it's true.

It aches as much as it makes him happy, but he’d rather have it than an absolute nothing.

The intense whiplash of emotions, from deep despair that Clark might hate the idea of a man loving a man, of _him_ , then suddenly being shoved into an intense joy that Clark can be _his,_ leaves him dizzy.

It's only due to a decade of perfecting his control that he hasn't leapt across the table and shoved his tongue down Clark's throat, finally getting a taste of what he hadn't even let himself look at for too long at any given time. He's focused on holding himself together, frozen, ever since Clark casually dropped all this explosive knowledge in the middle of the fucking Everton.

Ah, his reliable training. The more he feels, the more his body automatically tries to hide it all from his captors.

Clark looks at the vichyssoise, and it's a shame, because if Bruce gets his way, they'll never get to eat it today. "It's not your fault. I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it. I loved the idea of it, actually—loved that you would trust me like that, loved the thought of cementing our friendship in that radical, ultimate way. But. . ." he trails off. "I'm sorry. It means. . . more to me than it should..." 

_Ah_ , Bruce thinks, dazed, _so I'm not taking this the wrong way after all_ , and the blood pumping through his veins from adrenaline was now rushing towards his cock; his breath stops, body heating up with a sudden and vicious _want_ , and he has to steeple his fingers together, physically restrain his hands from grabbing onto Clark, stop himself from digging into that flawless skin and if he doesn't distract himself _now_ , there's going to be a hell of a scene for the tabloids.

"...and that's not fair to you or to our friendship. So I need a divorce." Clark finishes, and looks at him with dread. Waiting for his reaction.

He looks through Clark instead, off to the distance, because if he looks at that beautiful face directly, at that slightly heartbroken look that's begging to be made better, he's going to lose it.

"Are you listening to me at all," Clark said.

"Yes."

"So, you understand what I mean?"

"Yes."

"You understand that your initial assumption, why you thought I didn't want to do this anymore, was wrong? Because tell me you at least understand that."

Bruce stands, tossing his napkin to the table, hoping the motion will distract Clark from his half-hard crotch, the fast beat of his heart. "Come with me," he says, with barely concealed urgency, and when Clark finally gets up they walk towards the elevators.

The enclosed space makes it all so much _worse;_ the prospect of impending privacy just makes him twice as impatient. He crosses his legs and leans against the wall, holds himself closer, making sure to keep a distance from Clark. 

He wants to do this in a room, keep this moment off of surveillance or any prying eyes, and if he gives in to the raging need now they're never going to make it to the suite.

If he relaxes even by one iota, he's going to shove Clark into a wall of this elevator, grab that face and push his tongue through those perfect lips and climb into that hot mouth, press himself into Clark's space until not a single millimeter of distance exists between them, and Clark's going to feel that's he's already three-quarters to fully hard; he's going to tear off that abominable flannel shirt, rake his nails against all that perfect, invulnerable muscle, just to feel if they're as hard as they look, and then Bruce is going to make it so _good_ for Clark.

A ding, and the slowest elevator in the world finally opens into the longest hallway in the world.

His hand doesn't shake even a bit as he slides his keycard in, and Bruce marvels at his own control.

The moment the door shuts the anticipation reaches it's peak, and the keycard falls to the floor from his numb fingers.

Clark looks around. "Wow," he says. "This is really nice. So you keep a place here? That's bound to come in handy when—"

Finally, _finally_ , Bruce pounces.

**Author's Note:**

> I ~l o v e ~ all of fabularasa's writing, and whenever I'm re-reading all of her superbat works I always pore over this specific scene in this fic. Bruce futilely repressing how hot Clark makes him is my kink.
> 
> Daaamn I hope I did the scene justice!!!


End file.
